


your secrets like the grave

by Amie33



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:25:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amie33/pseuds/Amie33
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thought he heard the door opening and being closed but he wasn't sure. He wasn't getting younger, and he wouldn't be surprised if he was getting a bit deaf with old age. But then there's the shifting of clothes and clear footsteps on the floor and he knew, there's someone with him.<br/>-spoilers from  <em>The time of the Doctor</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	your secrets like the grave

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't had the time to read any fic based on this episode so I've no idea if someone else has already written something based on the same idea, if so I apologise.  
> There's no point in this fic but to express my feelings, you've been warned.  
> And unbeta'd, so like usual, my apologies for the mistakes.

He thought he heard the door opening and being closed but he wasn't sure. He wasn't getting younger, and he wouldn't be surprised if he was getting a bit deaf with old age. But then there's the shifting of clothes and clear footsteps on the floor and he knew, there's someone with him.

"Barnable?" he called like he always did nowadays, like he'd been doing for years. He was still hoping - or fearing - that one day the answer would be yes and he would know he would have totally lost his mind. Today wasn't that day, but it was almost worse.

"Barnable's been dead for a while," a voice replied and his hearts skipped a couple of beats. He didn't even know why at first, the memory very far, dug deep in his mind. And then he remembered why the voice sounded so familiar. "You're getting old, sweetie, you're talking to dead people now."

He turned his head, resting on his lap the wooden toy he'd been working on to watch the figure walking to him. The sight was unbelievable. Curly hair that drew his attention immediately, nice smile on her face, lips he had kissed so many times, tiny waist hugged by her sleeveless dress, perfect legs and, sweet detail that should prove him the apparition couldn't be real, bare feet. She should be freezing in the cold, dressed up like that, but instead warmth was coming from her, comfy and safe.

He breathed in deeply. Illusion or not, there was River Song in front of him.

"You're dead too," he whispered finally, the sentence half an affirmation, half a hope. He was an old man, and he could still pretend he didn't read the signs clearly - when he knew he simply refused to face the truth. There was still the possibility that she was there after all, running in and out of time, and maybe this time, the apparition wasn't really one...

"I'm sorry, honey, yes I am. I died a long time ago now."

He sighed in defeat. This was nothing but another illusion then. At least he had to admit, his hallucinations were honest, reflection of the part of him that could face the truth. But it hurt, knowing the River here wasn't the real one, and at the same time it was a relief. She would never see him so low at least.

She approached and he let her as she carefully sat on his lap, pushing the wooden dog between them. For a few seconds he couldn't say anything, couldn't move, could barely breathe. He could feel the weight of her upon him, familiar, reassuring. Concrete. One of his hands held hers, and her skin was soft against his own, dry and wrinkled. His other hand reached for her hair, her curls caressing his fingers, still as wild as the first day.

"You haven't changed," he breathed out in awe.

"You neither," she teased in reply, smiling. She squeezed his hand and it felt like she was really there, the touch comforting, warmth radiating from her body. If he looked closely at her face bathed by the fire light, he could see all the details of her, freckles on her skin, the little creases around her eyes that he’d always found so cute but that she'd always hated, the curve of her nose even more perfect than he thought, her lips still red and full of life. If she was an hallucination, made by his mind only, it was better than his own memories.

"I didn't think I remembered so much of you," he admitted out loud with a trembling voice, "I thought I had forgotten you. Sometimes I tried to remember your face, the sound of your voice but I..." He stopped, unable to say more. It was the truth. After a few hundred years, everything had vanished. Some days, he could barely remembered her name. Sometimes he thought she had been nothing but a dream. Maybe she was.

"It's okay, sweetie," she replied softly. Her hands let go of his to run into his hair - or what remained of it anyway. He could have wept in joy at the simple touch, appeasing, affectionate. He knew he was old now but she was still looking at him like it was the first time, not afraid at all by his diminished body. And he knew she was just a product of his mind, but he also knew that if she was real, it would totally be how she would be looking at him. She always looked at him like that.

He cleared his throat, his fingers reaching for her face and she leant into his touch. His thumb traced the apples of her cheeks, round and full. She hummed in contentment.

"I wish you could be here with me. It would have been so different..." he confessed. She would have helped him. So clever, she would surely have found a way to end this war. And if not, they would have had fun together, the first years, and then they would have grown old together, and died together, and it wouldn't have felt so bitter.

"I'm always here with you," she smiled and replied. He closed his eyes, memories of another time flooding his mind. He had told her so, and it’d been true. In a way she had always been here, even when he couldn’t remember her name, her presence always in him, guiding him. He never spent a day without asking to himself, what would have she said? What would have she thought? What would have she done? But it wasn't the same, was it, to imagine or to have her next to him?

"Sweetie," she broke his thoughts and he wondered how long he had stayed in his own mind. He was too old, had spent too much time here alone. Sometimes he got lost in his thoughts - literally lost. The fact that he was talking to his dead wife was another proof he was getting not only old, but also crazy. "When did it start?"

It was the advantage of talking with the product of his own mind, he absolutely knew what she was alluding to. Her, that. The hallucinations. "I'm not the first one you saw, right?"

He sighed. "No, no you're not. They're all coming, one by one. All the people I knew. All the people that were important. They suddenly appear, have a talk, and then disappear again. Once each. I never see them again after." He stopped, his hearts constricted. It meant after that, he would never see her again.

"You know you're getting closer to the end, don’t you?" she added and he nodded. He was getting weaker, his mind was slipping away. Outside the Daleks were getting stronger and soon they would win. But he wasn't afraid of his own death.

"What would happen of Christmas after me?"

River's smile vanished and she didn't need words. He knew. Trenzalore. The planet was dead, full of graves when he had seen it for the first time. A destroyed land.

"You did everything you could. You've been fighting for centuries to protect them. You did more than anyone would have. You have nothing to regret," she tried to reassure him.

"I know," he sighed, the confession bitter. He always wanted to do more.

River didn't say anything after that, resting her head on his shoulder, hugging him while he stroked her hair absentmindedly.

"River," he finally whispered after a while.

"Yes, Sweetie?"

"They all vanished," he said. "They came and then they vanished. All of them. Would you..."

"I have to," she confirmed and he gulped, fighting the tears. He was an old man, too old for another goodbye. He pressed her closer against him.

"Would you stay longer?" he begged against her hair, breathing in her shampoo, as fresh and delicate as it had always been.

"As long as I can," she promised. He nodded, a silent thank you hung in the air. He kept holding her for minutes, hours, neither of them saying anything as they enjoyed their last moments together. He didn't realise he was falling asleep before he suddenly woke up, alone. She was gone. The wooden toy was still resting on his lap, but there was no trace of her anymore. He took it, sighing as he started working on it again, fighting the tears.

A few minutes later, the door opened and he called, again, like he always did, "Barnable?"

There was a silent, before finally an answer - and this time it was a real voice talking to him, the trembling too clear to be an illusion. "Clara."

The toy fell on the ground.

Maybe he had reached the end. Or maybe not.

 


End file.
